The Boogeyman
by FerrumVigro
Summary: Tom Riddle doesn't have skeletons in his closet. Just a few corpses that will not decay. Set after DH.


_**Disclaimer:** I own nothing of the lovely and wonderful Harry Potter Universe, we all know who has that delight._

_**Summary:**Tom Riddle doesn't have skeletons in his closet. Just a few corpses that will not decay. Set after DH._

_**A/N:** I've got a few ideas of where I'd like this to go, however this is what I've typed up so far and I'm posting it here now to see how it's looking at this point before I waste anymore of my sleeping-time trying to write it all out. Tom Riddle has been a recent obession(TMR/HG) of mine that has yet to pass and I just wanted to give this a shot to see where it goes, so I'd love it if you dropped a review. This idea was bred, weirdly, while I was listening to "The Boogie Man" by Todd Rollin and His Orchestra(the title a tribute to this) along with the ponderings of Voldemorts afterlife and developed by the little saying of one having skeletons is their closet-as in secrets, Voldemort has seven in total, of course, who all have waited their fair share of time to have a word with him. Lucky for them Harry sent him their way. I'm sorry if the mixture of fonts annoys you but hopefully you will understand..._

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><p>He stands by the bed, shoulders back and blank faced, ignoring the whole entirety of the room and it's occupants, suppressing the urge to look at his feet and inspect his hands. Instead his hands are hidden behind his back, their long elegant fingers entwined together, nails bitten down and palms ink stained. His slim feet rest on the ends of lanky legs, bare and slightly cold, his pale skin is a valley of hills, goose-bumped; he is dressed in grey, knee-length shorts and it doesn't help the chill.<p>

Outside the lone window the sky is grey, inside his walls are grey reflecting dull light-everything is grey and dull and fading.

Just as it always had been.

_He is a youth again. Younger than that, a mere boy and somewhere in his mind, he realises that this is all very wrong. But that doesn't matter at the moment for it must be a Thursday. All rooms were inspected on a Thursday_.

**He doesn't it realise yet. He doesn't know what to call the itch crawling up his spine.**

**Ignorance is bliss. For now.**

His room was number twenty-seven, so that usually gave him time to store and hide anything he did'nt want found from peering eyes. This time however was unexpected, he hadn't had time to rush his secrets together and pull the floor boards up. His door was opened without a knock and he had only time to snap up from his bed and stand, waiting. All he could do was wait and hope there was nothing worth finding.

_He's confused, disoriented. He cant remember the day before or lying down to sleep, can't remember…why was he even sleeping in his uniform…why was he first on a Thursday…why…was he even here…_

**There's a lot worth finding, in that little grey, dull room.**

**Memories and sins, lusts and the unlove. **

**Soon he'll remember. **

He doesn't recognise the man who enters his room at first, thinks that perhaps it is another faceless worker Mrs Cole has employed to care for the child-infested building, a man to help handle the older, rougher, children. He doesn't look at him long, a glance is all and he picks a spot above the door, where the wood has began to rot, and stares at it; hoping the man will get on with his business and be on his way.

A heavy silence descends upon the room with the mans presence. Before there had been silence-_hadn't he been sleeping…had he been sleeping? What had he been doing before the opening of the door wasn't ther-_but this is different.

Uncomfortable and stiff.

He wants the man to leave more than ever but instead the taller of the two surprises the smaller, and steps into the room before he lowers himself to sit on the grey sheets of the bed.

_From that glance, handsome features are observed; high cheek bones, pale skin, arched brows, thick lashes protecting dark eyes below dark hair. In the back of his mind, something clicks and flashes._

**He recognizes this man, knows all about him yet nothing at all of him. **

**He _hates_ this man…**

In the corner, there is a closet.

_He doesn't want to go near those wooden doors. He _does not _want to touch or peer inside those rotten doors._

_He thinks of Mrs Cole opening them to find her stolen purse. _

_He thinks of Dumbledore._

_Of the man in his room._

…**he shouldn't be out.**

**But he is. **

He ignores it and removes his eyes from their place above the door. To the wall and its chipped paintwork.

The tall gentleman resting upon his bed is dressed in a expensive grey, tailored suit. His tie is red and he thinks it clashes with such a shade of grey. 'Its familiar,' he thinks; he has seen it before on this man and thought the very same thing.

The man is smiling at him.

He doesn't like this. It makes him uncomfortable, and he doesn't want to look at the man again, doesn't want to look anywhere, not the grey walls or dull sky or the closet in the corner.

"Your room's rather empty." The mans voice shatters the silence like a hammer to ice. Had he spoken at all? He hadn't seen his lips move but then again he hadn't actually been looking at him…

'This man,' the boy thinks, 'Is too _fine _to be an orphanage worker.' That suit is too rich. His voice is too strong.

So he accepts that he is not one and concludes that the man shouldn't be here.

_**Which, of course, is correct. He shouldn't, but he is.**_

_Just like me…_

"You should not be here." He voices, states it as one would the colour of the sky-_a rather draining shade of grey._

He is still looking at the wall, catching that handsome white smile from the corner of his eye.

_**He is also wrong in his statement; the man is meant to be there. **_

_**He's just in the wrong place.**_

"Oh?" That rich curl of tongue from full lips. "Is that so?"

"Yes." Again he speaks with surety, confident and even. At least that smile is gone and been replaced by a questioning frown.

"Then who should be here? Who else is there?"

_That inch on his spine, that shiver of cold, has slowly been growing and turning upwards. It is no longer an inch and he can feel his bones shaking, his blood slowly turns cold. His palms start to sweat. This was all very wrong and slowly he is beginning to realise. _

_**There is no one else.**_

"I don't need anyone." He tells the man, forcing the quiver in his voice down, fighting the growing fear and looking at him for the first, true, time. It hurts his eyes, that face….those eyes…the same bone structure…

"That belief hasn't gotten you very far. It's done the opposite, it's brought you here." He gestures to his room, his grey, rotting little room. "Not many people make in very far alone. You're no different. Your not so unique as to everybody else."

_And oh the irony, it burns his skin, he can feel it all bubbling wildly inside of him and it hurts._

So many days he had spent lying on that bed consumed with the thoughts that he was different, he was special; unique, because of all that he could do and then the day came when he had sat upon it and was told that he was indeed right; he _was _special, he was _unique._

The man is a _liar._

"I am different. I am special, I always have been. I've gone so far because of it, I've done so much, so-"

"Then why are you here now?" The man interprets, his eyes knowing and smile almost cruel. "Back to where you started. Nothing but a boy with a second-hand name and nothing to it."

But he is barely heard.

_At his own words, his memories had began to flow back and stitch themselves together, weaving through the years of his life and laying it before his eyes. The Orphanages-the grey, dull and fading childhood, Dunbledore-You're a Wizard, 'I'm not mad!', sweet glorious Home, Hogwarts, the Knowledge-all the knowledge leaking from pages to his mind, and his power would grow with each word and Slytherin! Heir of Slytherin, noble blood, pureblood-Mother and muggle father, a half-blood heir! He was a stain! Tainted with dirty blood with-with…_

_'You._' He hisses at him, his voice thick with hatred and disgust, his eyes narrowed in building pain, 'You are the _reason for all of this!'_

_Memories flood him, blinding him and pounding through his head. The pain is overpowering and he wants to scream, to shout and roar, to draw blood and have it leak it all away, to claw at his mind and force it all to just stop._

He slams his eyes shut and his world explodes, implodes, all that he is collapses and caves.

_**And then there is whiteness. Of drifting in a stream of memories, tainted with pain and sorrow, pleasure and power. He relives it all within the blink of an eye. Each day he lived, each page he turned, every face he met, each live he took and manipulated; destroyed. He'd shattered his own soul, destoryed the only true, pure thing he'd had...It is all lay before him, the destruction he caused, his affect on the world. From the beginning until the end, he remembers, and then he knows.**_

_This is the end. He's gone. He's passed. Potter…the Great Hall…His own curse…Dead. He was dead._

He wants to be angry, he wants to scream and sob, yet nothing surfaces, not even the hate he had felt before flares once more. He is oddly calm and quiet. As his senses return he realises he is on the floor, his cheek pushed against the dotted wood there; he is still in the orphanage room, still young and not alone. His father remains sitting upon his small cot. He doesn't rise or move, trying to make sense of it all-

**But he can't. Not many ever do. He's not suppose to. It is simply not important but what is important is for him to- **

"You should get up now," Tom Riddle Sr. tells him softly and after lifting his head to look at him, Lord Voldemort watches him pat the sheets beside him with a growing sense of dread and horror, "You know what needs to be done," And with a gesture towards the closet in the corner, he smiles, "We've been waiting for you."

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><p>Thanks for making it to the end!<p> 


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